In Consequence: A Retelling of North and South (35 page)

                  
“I’m certain I shall have a lovely gown,” she enthused, her eyes glittering up at him as a warm smile spread over her face.

                  
Her happiness enchanted him. He bent forward to kiss her. At such moments, as his mouth slowly neared hers, he still felt the quickening of fear that she may not wish for such attentions — that such a delicate and refined creature was innocent of the desperate cravings which flowed so maddeningly through his veins every moment he was near her. He thought her more exquisite in beauty and grace than any other being, and marveled that such a creature would match herself to him.

                  
But her soft, pliant lips moved against his with answering tenderness, transporting him to the heavenly bliss of her sweet affections.

                  
“I cannot help but feel unworthy of you,” he rasped, halting his pleasurable pursuit just enough to tell her what burned in his heart. “I am but a plain and coarse man who works among common men,” he murmured, his eyes pleading for her acceptance.

                  
“Shh,” she hushed him. “There is nothing common about you. You, who have raised yourself from misfortune to power and purpose,” she exclaimed in defiant praise, her eyes kindling with fervent adoration. “Striving alone to provide for your mother and sister — I have not known a more hard working and unselfish man….”

                  
He crushed his mouth to hers, impatient to taste such vehemence from her lips, incredulous at her steadfast praise.

                  
She met his ardent possession with equal fervor, igniting within him all the raging forces of his need for her. How long he had wanted her, believing for so many months that she would never deign to return his favor!

                  
With one forceful tug, he pulled her flush against him, reveling in the whimpered sound of her surprise.

                  
His kisses were hungry and unrelenting, searching for the depths of her acceptance of him. The sensuous feel of her tongue entwined with his sent pangs of fierce desire coursing through him. He knew he should stop, but he could not refrain from exploring the sweet ecstasy of her pliant mouth, becoming lost in the heady sensation of her willing submission to him. At last, he tore himself away, every pulse point pounding in furious frustration.

                  
“Margaret … I …” he faltered, afraid he had treated her too harshly in following his rampant urges.

                  
She buried her face against his shoulder like a child seeking refuge, and the apology forming in his throat died on his lips. She trembled in his arms and he clasped her closer, wishing to offer her every comfort of tenderness after such an onslaught of reckless passion.
Had he frightened her?

                  
The tapered arms that had wound around his neck were now wrapped around his waist. She tightened her hold, and he breathed out in rapturous wonder that she should lavish her affection on him, trusting him to care for her. He could not suppress a shiver of emotion from tracing his spine at the thought of her innocence and vowed he would shield her from all danger — even his own unguarded, lustful demands.

                  
At length, they loosened their hold of each other and his adoring gaze searched her face until she raised her eyes to him and dropped them again with blushing cheek.

                  
“I cannot see you tomorrow. I am engaged for the evening with business matters,” he informed her, already thinking of when he would see her next. “But I will come on Thursday for my lesson.”

                  
She nodded, bringing her gaze to his at last, still unable to speak.

                  
“Good night,” he uttered reluctantly in low tones.

                  
“Good night,” she replied in gentle earnestness.

                  
The mere sound of her dulcet voice infused him with a comforting warmth, and before he knew it, he bent to place one last tender kiss upon her lips.

                  
She rewarded him with a contented smile and he beamed at her in return. Their eyes danced in silent rejoicing at their growing bond before he forced himself to take up his hat and open the door.

                  
Margaret stood for several long moments after he had gone, awash in the whirl of emotions that he had wrought within her. Excitement, joy, confusing shame, love — all swirled and clamored, vying for closer contemplation.

                  
She heard the squeaking footfalls of her father’s movements upstairs, and thought of how speedily her days in this household would pass. No longer the dutiful daughter to beloved parents, she would embark on a new and wholly absorbing role as wife to the man whose very presence awakened in her every thrilling impulse to be alive.

                  
She turned to dash quietly up the stairs to her room, her pulse quickening at the remembrance of the fiery yearning in her belly that his deep kisses had evoked. Frightening in their intensity but wildly exhilarating, she still could not fathom the power of the emotions and sensations that came over her when her body pressed against his as one.

                  
She entered her room and closed the door. Crossing the floor in a dream-like trance, she pulled her nightgown from the wardrobe drawer and slowly brushed her fingers over the fine lace pattern of the edging. She tried to imagine how it would feel when he would take her into his arms their first night together — that special night when they would be alone for the first time. A shiver of tingling expectation arose from deep within, tracing goose bumps along the length of her arms and lightening her limbs.  She hugged the garment to her breast and closed her eyes in expectation.

                  
*****

                  
Mrs. Thornton and Fanny had already arrived in Crampton the next afternoon when the dressmaker’s coach pulled up to the house.

                  
The ladies gathered in the drawing room to watch as a pair of young porters lugged two hefty trunks to the upstairs sitting room. Madame Coutreau entered the house in their wake and introduced herself and her nodding assistant, who carried an embroidered bag brimming with the tools of their trade: pins and scissors, measuring ribbons, patterns and fashion catalogs.

                  
Maria Hale awaited them in the sitting room, and Fanny was soon scarcely able to remain seated as the dressmakers pulled out bolts of shining satin and sumptuous silks, delicate lace, and all manner of sequins, ribbons, and buttons until the room was transformed into a veritable shop of bridal wares.

                  
“Now,” Madame Coutreau began with enthusiastic authority in her French accent, “what fabrics catch the eye of mademoiselle?” she encouraged Margaret. Petite in stature yet elegant in style, Milton’s most sought-after fashion supplier bathed her customers in exuberant smiles that both pampered and prodded.

                  
The bride-to-be walked over to the broad display, gently fingering several fabrics before hesitating over a shimmering satin of palest blue.

                  
“Oh no, you must have white, Margaret!” Fanny called out in faint distress. “It is what everyone in London is wearing these days.”

                  
Hannah cast a sidelong look of warning at her daughter.

                  
“That is true,” Margaret calmly admitted. “Edith wore white at her wedding last year.” Fanny relaxed at this acknowledgment.

                  
“But it is a very lovely fabric, isn’t it?” Maria agreed with her daughter, rising slowly to cross the room and admire the material more closely.

                  
“Per’aps madame wishes to have her dress made of blue satin?” Madame Coutreau proposed. The famed dressmaker’s eyes twinkled with intelligence.

                  
“Oh! I had not thought of it, but perhaps you are quite right,” Mrs. Hale replied, her countenance brightening at the thought of obtaining a fresh new gown.

                  
At length, Margaret was drawn to a soft white satin, which would match her mother’s Honiton lace veil.

                  
As Margaret selected her fabrics, Fanny poured over the latest dress designs in fashion magazines and catalogs, eagerly showing her future sister-in-law the ones she found to be utterly wonderful creations.

                  
Margaret inclined her head politely at the images presented, but could not truly admire dresses drowning in layers of flounces and every conceivable frippery of adornment. Under Madame Coutreau’s keen guidance, she was led to approve a design both simple and elegant in style, which both she and the dressmaker deemed perfect for her taste and figure.

                  
Mrs. Thornton was silently impressed at Margaret’s poise and mature self-determination, for even though Mrs. Hale tended to side with Fanny’s gushing praise of the most atrociously overladen gowns, Margaret was unfazed in her attraction to what naturally suited her own sense of refined beauty.

                  
Following a flurry of measurement-taking and cataloguing of selections, Madame Coutreau and her obedient assistant vacated the house with as much pomp and efficiency as they had appeared. The dressmaker smiled satisfactorily as she reclined into her coach seat, pleased to have the orders on three dresses for such an account as Mr. Thornton’s.

                  
Somewhat dazed by the sudden quiet that engulfed them, the exhausted shoppers exchanged a few more polite words before Mrs. Thornton and Fanny stood to depart.

                  
Mrs. Thornton approached Margaret with uneasy purpose. “I brought you a small gift … just a token …” she falteringly explained as she placed a tiny bundle of white cloths bound with a ribbon into the girl’s hands.

                  
Margaret untied the blue ribbon to behold several exquisite handkerchiefs edged in delicate lace and embroidered in the corner in with the initials ‘J T M.’ Her gaze lingered in loving fascination over the combined initials of John’s name with her own. “They are beautiful. Thank you,” she breathed, captivated by the poignancy of this gesture which acknowledged Mrs. Thornton’s acceptance of her.

                  
The stiff formalism melted for a moment in the stern widow’s eyes as she appreciated the girl’s genuine gratitude. She turned to address both the girl and her mother. “If it’s convenient for you, we would be honored to receive your family for luncheon on Sunday.”

                  
A shadow of concern passed fleetingly over Mrs. Hale’s face before her countenance brightened with resolve. “It would be a great pleasure, thank you,” she replied in earnest, pleased to have the opportunity to experience for herself the grandeur of Mrs. Thornton’s table settings and to see the place that would soon be her daughter’s home.

                  
Mrs. Thornton nodded her approval. After politely informing them of the hour at which luncheon would be served, she bade her final farewell and departed with her daughter, leaving Margaret and her mother to exchange weary but pleased glances at the outcome of the day’s affairs.

                  
*****

                  
Cigar smoke wafted to the ceiling in the dark wood-paneled clubroom where the cotton mill masters often met. Mr. Hamper and Mr. Henderson sat comfortably in high-backed leather chairs while Mr. Slickson watched anxiously for the arrival of the others.

                  
Mr. Watson and Mr. Harkness ambled into the room a few moments later, the paunch of middle age and the haughty air of wealth marking them as members of the select few.

                  
“Have you seen the
Guardian
?” Slickson called out smugly as the late arrivals approached. “Thornton has finally fallen prey to the wiles of womankind,” he announced with great aplomb.

                  
“No! He’s an impervious rock. Far too upright to pursue the paltry paths of pleasure. Besides, he’s married to his work,” Hamper shot back from his chair, incredulous at such a possibility.

                  
“Totally oblivious to the flutter of a maiden’s eye. My wife insists upon it,” Henderson retorted.

                  
“Well, it’s in black and white. He’s to stand at the altar before the month is out,” Slickson declared in triumph.

                  
“Impossible!” Watson argued, his face contorted in confusion.

                  
“Who’s the girl?” Harkness inquired. “Perhaps he’s found an heiress.”

                  
“Or a beauty,” Henderson suggested raising his eyebrows.